


Nativities Aren't Usually This Dangerous

by TossMe_A_Pen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Bisexual John Watson, Case Fic, Christmas Crack, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, It has a lot in common with the film Nativity (BBC) but i just thought it'd be fun, M/M, POV John Watson, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson at Christmas, Stressed John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28200201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TossMe_A_Pen/pseuds/TossMe_A_Pen
Summary: A Nativity directed by the school's worst director, a case of serial kidnapping, a lie blown out of proportion, it really is Christmas for John Watson.John's harmless white lie about Hollywood coming to film this year's Nativity explodes throughout town, and his role as director just got that much more complicated. His blatant attraction to his newly appointed teaching assistant, Sherlock Holmes, certainly isn't helping, and when he insists on solving a string of local kidnappings, John is dragged along with him.On top of all that, John just can't stand Christmas. What could possibly go wrong?(This is gonna be updated, you'll just have to wait a little; hope you'll stick by me!)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. Oh, John Wishes it Could be Christmas...Never Again.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yes, I'm doing this. I just wanted to write a fic that was feel good, one off, some might say insane....so here you have it. Yes, it's loosely based around BBC's Nativity but with a case that took me far too long to come up with, a fluffy romance and plenty of Christmas RomCom moments, what's not to love? (Do tell me if there's something not to love, but be kind, there's only so much criticism we writers can take.) 
> 
> Edited schedule, expect the next two chapters soon and by the latest, Easter. That's my deadline and I absolutely intend to meet it. The game is on.
> 
> Anyway, I appreciate this fandom has lacked new content for an unbearably long time but I'm hoping this fic will just offer a fun form of escape during a time filled with uncertainty. Hope anyone who reads this enjoys :D

John Watson hated Christmas. He wasn’t sure what it was about it. Maybe the lights, possibly the clusters of people, shoving into him in the streets, all clad in white-trimmed red. Maybe the clumps of carol singers blurting out lyrics they didn’t understand the meaning of, ambushing him in the street. Maybe he was just a miserable old git. More likely, it was down to the simple fact that he’d had too many Christmases on the front line, too many Christmases tucked away by himself at home, too many Christmases without Sarah. He was constantly trapped in the events of his last Christmas with her, replaying the Christmas his girlfriend had left him in the hopes that she’d find her ‘big break’.

John wasn’t bitter about it, not at all. He did, however, find himself wishing that the only big break she’d ever have was their split. This year, his feelings toward the national holiday were no different. The worst thing was the children. John actually enjoyed spending time teaching his class at the local primary school, St Bart’s, but they all adored Christmas. They enjoyed the build-up to the point where it became effectively useless to attempt to teach them anything in the last two weeks. Other teachers wore Santa hats in the build-up to the Christmas holidays. John Watson wore a permanent frown.

John Watson hated Christmas. It was, therefore, only fitting that his name be called out in front of the whole school as the director for this year’s nativity.

John had marched to the Headmistress’s office as soon as the assembly was dismissed, determined to put a stop to the whole ordeal. He now sat opposite her, trying desperately to keep his frustration under control.

“Oh, John dear,” Mrs Hudson said from behind her desk, “I’m sure everything will work out.”

“No,” John shook his head, “absolutely not. Do you remember the play I put on two years ago?” Mrs Hudson winced. Nobody actually wanted to remember that travesty, but nobody found that they could forget it either. The local critic had slammed his production, and granted, it had been terrible, but John had been determined to live in spite ever since.

“Oh,” Mrs Hudson said, “I’m sure it won’t be as bad this time.”

“Won’t be as…Mrs Hudson with all due respect,” John sucked in a deep breath, “these kids, are useless. _I_ am useless.”

“You do yourself a discredit,” Mrs Hudson smiled, “I have every faith this’ll be the best Nativity of my career.” She sighed wistfully, gazing around her office. “I shall miss this place.”

“Yes well—hold up, miss this place?” Mrs Hudson nodded, brow furrowing.

“Yes dear, I’m to retire after this year. Didn’t you hear?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course you are,” he said.

“Yes,” Mrs Hudson said brightly, completely missing the reason for John’s anguish, “so naturally—”

“You’d like this to be the best Nativity yet.” John nodded. “Brilliant.”

Mrs Hudson beamed at him and he offered her a tight-lipped smile in response.

“No pressure then,” he forced. Mrs Hudson only reached to open the door for him.

“You’d best go back to your class Dr Watson,” she said kindly. He smiled, forcing himself to his feet. His limp was slightly more accentuated than usual as he left the office in search of his unruly class.

“Oh, and I should mention,” said Mrs Hudson, eyes glinting with mischief, “you’ll have a new teaching assistant starting today.”

John, nodded with a slight frown, trying a small smile. “Thanks,” he said, “Mrs Hudson.”

He breathed a hopeless sigh as he made his way through the halls. He had no doubt in his mind that this would be the worst production of the Nativity of Mrs Hudson’s entire career.

*

John really didn’t expect much from his class, not much at all, nor did he really expect anything from this new teaching assistant he’d apparently have to put up with. Which is why he was rather surprised to hear a deep yet impossibly smooth voice resounding from inside his classroom. Moreover, he was vastly surprised that he didn’t hear anything else. No shouts, no grating of chair legs as students clambered over tables, whoever this assistant was, he seemed to have more control over the children than John did himself. Which, obviously, was ridiculous.

John froze outside the door. He could see why his students were captivated. The man standing before him was striking, John would even go as far as to say beautiful – what? He caught himself. No, he wouldn’t. The man was tall and lean, dark tousled hair and bright silver eyes. No man had the right to look like that, let alone _sound_ like that.

John felt his cheeks burn, suddenly very aware of his dreary grey cardigan. He knocked on the door, wondering if the new teacher looked the same up close or if it was just a distortion of the window. He was grappling for anything to excuse his blatant attraction. The window would do; he couldn’t fully see the man. He was just interested. That was all. He pushed open the door, twenty heads whipping around to stare at him. Oh, Christ.

The window would very much not do.

“Mr Watson!” a child cried. John realised that he’d been staring. He blinked, clearing his throat.

“I believe it’s Doctor Watson,” the man corrected. The child in question, Sam, blushed profusely, nodding her head too quickly.

“No, no,” John assured her, with a smile, “Mr is fine.” He paused, face falling. “Wait a minute, how do you know that?” He’d never told anyone at the school that he was a qualified Doctor. At least, he didn’t think he had.

The teaching assistant just grinned.

“Has the, has the class been ok?” John asked.

“Oh yes,” the man said, “I’ve just been teaching them about different types of asphyxiation.”

“Oh,” John found himself surprised. His class wasn’t what he’d call particularly well behaved. “That’s good.” Something dawned on him. “Wait a minute, asphyxiation? What the hell are you thinking? They’re a bunch of seven-year-olds!”

The man blinked. “I can see that.”

“Mr Watson, Mr Watson,” a boy called Alex squealed, bounding up to him, “did you know that water turns skin blue?”

The assistant’s eyes grew wide, he stared hurriedly between Alex and John. John tilted his head to the side, a dangerous smile tugging on the corners of his lips.

“What?”

Alex’s grin widened. “He showed us pictures!”

“Right,” John said, “of course he did. “What…what did he show you pictures of?”

“Dead people!”

“Right, yes, well I think that’s quite enough, Alex,” the teaching assistant said, shifting uncomfortably.

It didn’t take long for John to join the dots. “You, outside, now,” he said. The assistant nodded slowly, following John outside with pursed lips.

Once in the corridor, John spun around, slamming the door to the classroom. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

The assistant blinked a second time. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“The pictures you showed the children? Asphyxiation?”

“I assure you, they’re all perfectly capable of understanding—”

“That isn’t the point!” John was beginning to feel frustration bubble from within.

“Dr Watson, they may be children but from my experience, shielding them from the truth of this world can be significantly more devastating than disclosing it.”

John stared. “They’re supposed to be learning about _nouns_.”

“Oh please,” scoffed the assistant, “nouns, nouns are boring.”

“They’re essential knowledge!”

“Dull.”

John folded his arms, squaring his stance. “Just…who, who are you? And how did you know I’m a doctor?”

The assistant narrowed his eyes, just a little. “I should think Mrs Hudson has already made you aware the nature of my position.”

“Yes,” and there was that dangerous smile again, “she has.”

“Good. Then you know I’ll be assisting you, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Dr Watson, what would the parents think if they knew a retired veteran diagnosed with PTSD was teaching their little darlings to pass as functional human beings?” John grew very still.

“How the hell do you know that?” The assistant’s lips quirked up slightly at the corners.

“Obvious really,” he said.

John chuckled, without humour. “Obvious? Like hell it’s obvious.” The assistant rolled his eyes.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he said, holding out a hand, “if we’re going to work with each other, we should at least try to be civil.”

“Civil? You want me to be civil when you just traumatised my children and tried to threaten me—”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, Afghanistan or Iraq?” he took a step closer. “Your limp, Dr Watson. It looks really bad when you walk but when you stand you don’t ask for a chair, almost as if you’ve forgotten it. That means it’s at least partly psychosomatic. Most likely you have a therapist, she’s assumed, wrongly might I add, that you’re haunted by your time at war, PTSD then, something that you probably don’t want people knowing about. The psychosomatic remnants of injury suggests that the original circumstances of the wound were traumatic, most likely conclusion, you were previously invested in a military career. You’ve been teaching for three years, Mrs Hudson told me, a fairly recent war then, ruling out all other possibilities, Afghanistan or Iraq.” He paused, looking incredibly smug. “So, you see, I wasn’t threatening you. I was merely observing.”

John tried, really tried not to be impressed. “You haven’t answered my question.” Mr Holmes cocked his head to the side.

“Oh?”

“How did you know I was a doctor?”

“Ah. You knew exactly what I meant when I spoke of asphyxiation. You teach children yet you used to serve in the military. That tells me that you’re exceedingly patient, morally righteous., don’t look at me like that, you work with children. All that implies that you must have some medical knowledge and you didn’t enlist just to kill. Military doctor then.” Mr Holmes grinned and John tried to keep his expression blank. Surely it wasn’t that obvious?

“That, Mr Holmes,” John said. What was that? “That was brilliant.”

Mr Holmes blinked again. “Really? A minute ago, you looked ready to knock me out cold.”

John shrugged. “I was. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t brilliant.”

“Call me Sherlock,” said Holmes, “and as flattered as I may be, I mustn’t take all the credit.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. Mrs Hudson told me you were a Doctor.” John sputtered, barking a bemused laugh.

“She, she did?” Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“Of course. Why look so surprised?”

John chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t remember telling her anything about that.”

Holmes was silent for a while. “Your Personal Statement Dr Watson,” he said.

“Oh.” John felt his cheeks burn. That was an obvious thing to forget about, he’d been so caught up in the man’s ability to deduce that he’d forgotten about his own CV. “Of course, yeah. Sorry.” He stared at the floor.

“Not at all,” Holmes said, “easily done. Now, it seems we have a class to attend to.”

“Right. Yes.”

Holmes paused before he reached the door. “I thought I told you to refer to me as Sherlock?”

John was rendered speechless. “What…?” He hadn’t said his name since the last time.

Holmes, Sherlock, gave him a knowing smile, his coat billowing behind him as he entered John’s classroom.

*

Christmas tree shopping. Couldn’t be too difficult, could it?

John stared at the mass of Christmas trees before him. How was he meant to choose from all these? Sherlock stood behind him, cold and calculating as ever.

“This is entirely pointless,” Sherlock said. John exhaled heavily.

“Has to be done.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Most people would try to tell me that Christmas is the most wonderful time of year and that I shouldn’t disregard any part of the fanciful tradition.”

“Yeah,” John sighed, “well I’m not most people.”

Sherlock regarded him coyly. “No,” he said, “you’re not, are you.”

John didn’t give himself time to process that remark.

“Right,” he said, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, “onwards and upwards then.”

The tree John chose was pitifully small, the branches scraggly and thin, the needles barely reaching a centimetre. John reckoned it represented what Christmas meant to him.

“You could choose a taller one you know.”

“Hmm?”

Sherlock pointed at the tree with a gloved finger. “You could choose a larger tree. There’d be just enough room in the hall for a medium size.”

John shook his head, checking the price tag of the smaller one. “Nah, I think, yeah, this one’s fine for now.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“You never know,” John added, “maybe it’ll grow.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock’s features broke into a genuine smile and he chuckled lightly. John found himself smiling along with him.

“Watson!” A pretentious voice called from behind. “Oh, and Sherlock Holmes, fancy seeing you here.”

Both men spun around to face the speaker. “Sebastian,” Sherlock and John said at the same time, without enthusiasm. John stared up at Sherlock in surprise who kept his eyes firmly trained upon Sebastian’s features.

“Long time no see,” Sherlock said venomously.

Sebastian laughed. John bristled beside Sherlock, hands clenching into fists. Sebastian Wilkes, headteacher of the prestigious Sanderson Private School. John despised him.

“You didn’t tell me you were friends with Sherlock John,” Sebastian drawled.

“Colleagues,” John corrected before he could stop himself, not registering the hurt that flashed across Sherlock’s brow.

“Ah,” Sebastian nodded, eyeing Sherlock, “makes sense. We were at Uni together,” he explained when met with John’s blank expression. “He always used to rile us up the wrong way, had this sort of trick he used to do, could walk into the dorms and tell you who’d been shagging the night before. We all hated him of course.”

“It’s not a trick,” Sherlock muttered, “I merely observed.”

“I’ve uh, I’ve seen him do it actually.” John glanced at Sherlock. “Quite incredible really.”

Sherlock almost smiled.

“Good lord and you’re still talking to him?” Sebastian asked. “Must have something special between you.”

John blushed scarlet. “Oh, no,” he gestured between he and Sherlock, cleared his throat, “we’re not, we’re not together.”

Sebastian feigned surprise. Sherlock was staring at John with a strange look in his eyes.

“Course,” Sebastian said. “How’s your limp John?” Sherlock gave John a pointed stare. Wilkes didn’t allow John time to answer. “Oh, I heard you’re manning the Nativity this year.” He grinned, white-toothed, predatory.

John shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah I am.”

Sebastian’s eyes lit up. “I can’t wait for this year’s disaster. At Sanderson, we, of course, have something huge planned, as always.”

John nodded, staring at his feet.

“You heard from Sarah lately?” John’s head shot up; he narrowed his eyes.

He could take the high ground. He really could. No. Not today. Wilkes could shove it. “Yeah. I have actually. We’re good friends.”

John ignored the look he was gaining from Sherlock.

“Oh really?” Wilkes tried to cover his surprise. “Then you’ll know she’s a producer in Hollywood now, right?”

John pressed his lips into a tight smile. “Yeah, yeah I did actually.” How could he one up Sebastian? He prayed for an immediate epiphany. “She’s uh…” what was he supposed to say? She was bringing Hollywood to film this year’s nativity? A grin broke out across his features. “She’s bringing Hollywood to film our nativity actually.”

Sebastian’s eyes bulged out of their sockets and Sherlock’s brows shot up. John deftly elbowed him in the side.

“You’re pulling my leg?” Sebastian tried to grin.

“No, no,” John assured him, enjoying the look of horror on Sebastian’s face, “I’m quite serious.”

Sebastian’s irritatingly rosy cheeks had been sucked of their colour.

“Sherlock here actually helped me organise the whole thing.” John was determined to squeeze as much out of this lie as he possibly could.

“I…I did?” John widened his eyes a fraction, nodding harshly to Sherlock. “I did,” Sherlock said.

Sebastian’s mouth hung open. John was enjoying this far too much. He patted Wilkes on the shoulder, grinning profusely.

“You can grab an invite if you’d like to,” John said, “look forward to seeing your nativity – I come every year.” The last part was true. John attended every year, desperately attempting to search for some kind of imperfection, some huge flaw. There never was one. Each year he attended and each year he sat there at the back, arms folded, seething.

“Yes…yes, I’ll um,” Sebastian coughed, trying to regain some of his composure, “I’ll just be,” he pointed towards the exit, “off then.” He flashed a smile and began to stalk off. John wasn’t even sure if he’d bought a tree.

“Bye Sebastian,” John called from behind. A backhanded wave was all the recognition he received.

“Nicely done.” John whirled around to face Sherlock. He couldn’t help the grin that possessed his lips.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “What happens when he finds out you were lying?”

John shrugged. “He’ll be pissed. I’ll just tell him it was cancelled. It’s not like it matters if he finds out.”

Sherlock smiled slightly, rolling his shoulders back. “So, the medium-sized tree?” he asked.

John rolled his eyes, turning his focus back to the task in hand. “The small one Sherlock. It’s the standard size for schools, even Sanderson ordered a small. Christmas shouldn’t be about making a statement.”

“Oh? What kind of statement would I be trying to make?”

John sighed, expression deadpan. “Mine is bigger than yours.”

*

John didn’t notice the report on the television. He ate his breakfast with his back turned to the screen. He did, however, notice that people were being particularly nice to him today. He’d been given a croissant at the local coffee shop ‘on the house’. The gardener in the park had offered him his congratulations. Even the parents had smiled at him as he hobbled through the playground.

It was only when Mrs Hudson dragged him into her office to ‘congratulate him’ did it dawn on him that something was very different to usual.

“Well, I just have to say,” John was sure Mrs Hudson’s face would split she was beaming so much, “we’re all incredibly excited.”

“Yeah,” John said, “I’m sure. What, what are you excited about?”

“Oh John,” Mrs Hudson widened her arms as if to embrace him, instead sandwiching his cheeks between her palms, “Hollywood!”

John stared at her. _Oh God, no, no, no._ “Ah,” John said and then another “ah.” He wasn’t sure what else to say.

Mrs Hudson giggled, clapping her hands together in excitement. “How, how did you find out about, about um, Hollywood?”

“Phillip was dear enough to let me know.” Anderson. How the bloody hell did he hear about John’s lie? “He overheard you at the Christmas tree sale.”

John’s face fell. “Of course he did.”

“Is something wrong?”

John was about to answer Mrs Hudson when the door opened. “Dr Watson? You’re needed in your classroom,” Sherlock said.

“Oh well then dear,” Mrs Hudson said brightly, “I won’t keep you. Oh, Sherlock, I’ve asked you to wear a tie, at least do up the top button of your shirt. I’ll have to have a word with your mother if you don’t start—”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock hurried John out of the door, slamming it behind him.

“Right, John, as I’m sure you’re aware, and if you had half a brain which I am quite certain you do, we have a slight problem.”

“You know Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock frowned.

“Yes, I would have assumed that to be obvious.” He shrugged. “Now, about this Hollywood business—”

“’A word with your mother?’” John exclaimed. “No wonder you got the job, who in their right mind would let you anywhere near children.”

Sherlock spun around, expression unreadable. “If you must know I’m not here to be your assistant. I’m a detective, I’m here for a case. A case that has just become much harder thanks to the attention you’ve managed to attract with your clever little Hollywood lie.”

“You’re…what?”

“I’ll explain over dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner, tonight, seven ‘o’clock.” Sherlock handed him a slip of paper with the name of a local restaurant. “Now, this problem you’ve so unwittingly caused.”

“Hold on, you don’t even know if I’m free.”

“You are,” Sherlock called to him as he whisked past down the corridor. “Now for strategy?”

“Strategy?” John was feeling increasingly out of his depth.

Sherlock spun around just as they reached John’s classroom. “Hollywood, John,” he said, his eyes mockingly wide.

Oh, God. What had he got himself into now?

*

After an exceedingly taxing day, trying his very best to keep twenty unruly seven-year-olds under control, all John really wanted to do was have a good sit down. But there was the note in his pocket. However hard he tried, he could not seem to remove Sherlock from his mind. His presence was invasive, and the note in his pocket felt heavy.

He wasn’t going to go to dinner. Absolutely not! Especially not with his assistant, who he’d only just met at that. Especially not with Sherlock Homes. Miraculously intelligent, mystically gorgeous, silver-eyed, intriguing Sherlock Holmes.

No. John would much rather just sit where he was, in the comfort of his undecorated home.

John Watson was perfectly happy with his perfectly normal life, thank you very much. His life where nothing ever happened to him.

John sighed. He was happy here, with his newspaper, and his class’s school-work (which, quite frankly, was honestly appalling).

John was _not_ going to dinner tonight.

*

“So, what would you recommend?” John asked, frowning at the menu.

“I’d recommend the Lobster Ravioli, but of course, you’re vegetarian.”

“Right,” John said, nodding. He frowned. “Wait, how did you know?” Sherlock just smirked.

“Choose the gnocchi. I think you’ll find it’s to your taste.”

“Aren’t you ordering anything?” Sherlock didn’t answer him, just stared absently out of the window. A server appeared with a candle, to make ‘their date more romantic’. John had, by this point, given up trying to convince people they weren’t together and forced a resigned smile.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “since we’re on the topic, do you have a girlfriend?” _God, could you be any more obvious, John Watson?_

“Girlfriend? Not really my area.”

“Oh,” John spluttered. “Oh so,” his cheeks felt warm as Sherlock’s piecing gaze trained itself to him, “boyfriend, then?” he swallowed tightly. “Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine.”

“Yes, well, yes.” John cleared his throat, took a large gulp from his wine glass.

“John,” Sherlock said, “John, I want you to know,” Sherlock regarded him with a strange expression, “you have,” he cleared his throat, “you have sauce around your mouth.” He returned to stare out of the window.

John felt his heart beat a little faster. This man would be the death of him, for sure. The candle-light flickered over Sherlock’s high cheekbones. John had the sudden urge to brush Sherlock’s curls away from his bright eyes. John swallowed another large amount from his glass. He could not be falling for his assistant. Not on his watch.

“Why are we here then?”

“I fancied a look at the local culture.”

John barked a laugh. “No, really,” he said, regaining his composure, “you said you were a detective.” He swallowed. “Is this, is this about those missing children?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Well, they’re not exactly missing anymore, are they John?”

John almost spat out his drink. “No, but—”

“Three children, disappear, each of them returned after two days, unharmed. Two of them, reported their captor speaking of an audition. The other child hasn’t spoken ever since so we don’t need to bother with him.” Sherlock waved his elegant fingers dismissively and John raised his eyebrows. “Now the fourth child, she’s the interesting one. She was returned after three days, and with a note. Oh, don’t look at me like that John, a serial kidnapper, four returned missing children and now a note? It really _is_ Christmas.”

“And that means we’re here because…?”

“Oh, just observing people, incredible how useful that can be.” Sherlock nodded his head to where Sebastian crossed over the road across from them, looking dishevelled.

“You’re watching Wilkes?”

“He’s stealing money from his school, yes.”

“Oh,” said John. “Oh. Right, yes, of course.” He nodded slowly, staring down into his drink. “Sorry, he’s stealing money from Sanderson?”

“Mmm, surprised you didn’t notice yourself.”

“You know what I don’t want to know how you know,” John said, shaking his head to supress a grin.

“So, John, up for a quick jog?”

“What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Sebastian’s already a good few streets away, if we’re gonna catch up to him, I suggest we move quickly.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” agreeing before he knew why was becoming a habit for John, “what for?”

“Thrill of the chase?” Sherlock said, shrugging on his coat. “Catch Mr Wilkes in the act?” Sherlock winked as he held open the door. “To prove a point,” he said.

John grinned, and though he wasn’t exactly sure how trailing an intoxicated Sebastian would expose his thievery, John was just glad to be here, with Sherlock. They took off together, John trying desperately to keep up.

He didn’t even notice that he’d left his walking stick behind.


	2. The Only House Without a Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My God, I'm still alive.
> 
> I know there aren't many readers for this fic, but I still wanted to apologise. I've been so incredibly depressed and I just couldn't bring myself to write or do anything. But anyway, I'm back in the swing of things now so here's the next Chapter. If anything, I just want this to be a fun read so, if you're reading this, enjoy!

To John’s amazement, Sherlock had offered to walk him home.

They’d chased Sebastian down to where he stumbled over to unlock his car. John didn’t need to be Sherlock to deduce that drink driving wasn’t a good idea. John had tried to muffle his giggles as Sherlock ducked under the shadows. Sherlock had lowered his voice, yelling to Sebastian under the pretence that he was a police officer. Sebastian had yelped, dropping his car-keys, and bolted drunkenly off down the street. Sherlock had paused beside the car, stooped to pick up the keys himself, shaking them off a little.

“Well, that wasn’t quite how I’d intended the evening to go but at least we have a reason to talk to him again,” he’d said with a slight grimace. John had thereupon burst into a fit of giggles and hadn’t stopped smiling since.

When they finally reached John’s house Sherlock’s amused grin faded into a look of curiosity. He stared intently at the bare walls of John’s home. John frowned.

“What is it?” he had to ask.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Yours is the only house without decorations, why?”

John shifted his toe against the pavement. “I told you,” he said, “I don’t like Christmas.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock’s expression once again dissolved into that of amusement. That couldn’t mean anything good. “Who’s Sarah?”

John froze. “Who’s who?”

Sherlock smiled. “Sebastian spoke of her. You tensed up at the mention of her name.”

“I did not.”

“You just did, just now.” John narrowed his eyes.

“Fine,” he conceded, “she’s my—”

“Ex-girlfriend, yes, I thought so.” John glared at him, his cheeks flushing. “So, tell me why don’t you have decorations?”

John shook his head. “I just don’t—”

“Could it be your time abroad in the army? Christmas in Afghanistan has got to sour the mood.”

“Sherlock—”

“No, no, you enjoyed the action, the adrenaline. Something else then. You don’t like attention, maybe it’s family life. You don’t get on with your sister, that’s obvious, but is that enough to make you despise the tradition?” Sherlock snorted. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Sherlock—"

“More likely it’s about love then. You flinch when you hear Sarah’s name, Sarah’s an ex-girlfriend, oh that’s interesting, _the_ ex-girlfriend. You were going to propose to her. There’s something else, when she left her, yes, she left you on Christmas day.” Sherlock blinked, confused. “Is that it?”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked taken aback. “What?”

“That wasn’t fair,” John said quietly, “what you just did.”

“It’s not as if I can just turn it off.”

“I’ve never told anyone that.” Jon felt his cheeks burn. He sniffed. “What you just worked out in five seconds flat.”

Sherlock paused, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Do you really hate Christmas because Sarah left you?”

John glared at Sherlock. “The polite thing to do would be to say sorry.” Sherlock winced and John just sighed. “But yes,” he said, “I suppose I could still be in love with her.”

“No, you’re not,” Sherlock blurted.

“I’m sorry?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ll walk you up to your door then.” He pointed to John’s porch, making his way up the driveway.

“No, Sherlock, what did you mean, ‘I’m not.’”

Sherlock didn’t answer him, just made a point of ringing John’s doorbell. John sighed and begrudgingly made his way to Sherlock. They stood opposite each other outside the door.

“How’s your leg John,” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“My leg?” John asked. “Oh,” he said, the realisation dawning in him, “ _oh_. My leg.”

Sherlock made no attempt to hide his smirk.

“I just ran, all that way,” John barked an incredulous laugh, “how did I do that? Sherlock, how did I do that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Like I said, psychosomatic. You just needed a little push.”

“Right,” John said, breathless with astonishment. He chewed on his lower lip. “My leg,” he mused dreamily. All this time he’d just needed ‘a push’? He studied Sherlock carefully, the sharp angles of his cheekbones only accentuated by the low light. There was something about him, something exciting. It gave John a rush. It also scared him. How could he have just forgotten about a limp? He’d have to leave his therapist a bad review.

John realised where he was standing. A strange silence had passed between the two men and John was acutely aware of Sherlock’s penetrative stare, fixated firmly on him. He shook himself and cleared his throat.

“So…where exactly are you staying?” John asked. “I never bothered to find out, sorry.”

“Oh, just at the local inn, nothing special.”

“Yes.” John nodded. “Oh, that really is nothing special, you’d be better off sleeping at school.”

“Well, I don’t usually sleep. It’s no matter.”

“It matters to me,” John said firmly, unsure as to why he felt quite so protective. “Why don’t you stay here, with me. I, uh, I have a spare room you could stay in.” Sherlock’s eyes were bright and impossibly wide. “Just while you work the case of course,” John added hastily when Sherlock didn’t answer.

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“Sherlock,” John said, “you’re helping to catch a kidnapper. It’s the least I can do.”

Sherlock visibly swallowed. Joh was suddenly very aware that he’d only known Sherlock for two days. They’d only just met! He shouldn’t be asking him to move in with him! He barely knew the man! John sucked in a few shaky breaths to calm himself. _Calm John_. It wasn’t as if Sherlock was going to accept.

“Well, if you insist.” Oh shit.

John stared. “Hnng?” he managed to sputter.

“I accept…your…offer,” Sherlock coughed out, his cheeks dusted lightly pink.

The two men stood awkwardly outside John’s door, refusing to meet the other’s eye.

“So, when do you plan to move in?” John asked, clearly forgetting that it was his own house he was talking about.

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock blurted. Then, remembering himself, “If that would be considered acceptable.”

“Right,” John said, “tomorrow. Yes, of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

Blue eyes latched onto his. “You seem flustered.”

“No,” John lied, forcing a smile, “not at all.” Oh, God what was he doing.

“I suppose gratitude is in order.”

For the first time in a good few minutes, John was able to bark a laugh. “Yes, yeah I think it is.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked up into a small smile. “Thank you, John Watson.”

Sherlock nodded curtly and spun around on the heels of his feet without another word. John stared after him, eyes wide. “Bye,” he said, “then.”

*

The next morning John awoke with a start. Snippets of last night’s conversation whizzed around in his head. “Oh God,” he said, “oh…,” he clicked his tongue and nodded defiantly, “God.”

He ran a hand through his hair. Was he losing his mind, or did he really ask Sherlock to live with him? 

John told himself everything was going to be fine as he cycled all the way to school for the first time in years. He also tried to believe it, but he wasn’t having much success. It would be fine, he knew it. He was a little shaky on his bike, but he’d gotten the hang of it soon enough. It was incredible how the adrenaline he felt had obliterated any kind of pain in his leg. He wondered if life with the detective always felt like this. He sighed, not really paying attention, and nearly drove his bike straight into Sherlock himself. He was able to swerve abruptly to the side, but the bike toppled over, and he was sent sprawling over the curb.

“John,” the detective said, not at all surprised, “fancy seeing you here.”

“What?” John spluttered, eyes wider than his bicycle wheels. Sherlock offered him a hand to help him up. John dismissed the gesture, pushing himself to his feet and brushing down his shirt. “Sherlock, we’re outside the school,” John said as he realised where he was.

“Yes we are,” Sherlock affirmed, “you should really look where you’re going.”

“You said ‘fancy seeing you here’,” John said, folding his arms, “we work here, Sherlock. It shouldn’t be surprising at all. Or have you forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting as my assistant?”

Sherlock blinked. “It’s a…it was a figure of speech.” He cleared his throat. “Isn’t that what people say?”

John clenched his fists. He was irritated and humiliated. He knew it wasn’t fair to take it out on Sherlock, but his ego had been bruised and besides, Sherlock deserved a little telling off, right? “Yes,” John hissed.

“So why were you—”

“I don’t know!” Sherlock stared after John as he grabbed his bike and began to march towards the school.

“John,” he began, “John…”

“What.” John could feel his ears burning. What was he thinking? He couldn’t even spend five seconds in the man’s company without tearing out his throat, how was he supposed to be expected to bloody live with him!

“Is everything ok?” Sherlock easily caught up to John which stoked his ire just a little more.

“Yes. Fine.”

“You seem tense.”

John whirled around to face the detective, unclipping his helmet in a fluid motion as he stooped down to secure a bike lock.

“I just found out that Sebastian’s stealing money from his own school, everyone thinks bloody Hollywood is coming to film my nativity and I asked a man I’ve just met to move in with me so yes I’m a little tense!” he was breathing heavily, finger a hair’s breadth away from Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s eyes were a little too wide and slightly hurt. “What?”

“So that’s the reason why you’re acting so annoyed.”

John stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You’d rather I didn’t come live with you.”

John blinked. “What, no I—”

“Oh please,” Sherlock sniffed, shrugging his shoulders so that he stood taller than before, “it’s written all over your face.”

“So what if it is,” John grumbled and stalked off towards his classroom, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He didn’t wait for Sherlock to say anything more.

*

The children had noticed something was wrong. Kids could be alarmingly perceptive. John remembered he was. Though, undoubtedly, he would’ve been nothing compared to Sherlock. The man was perfect at everything. John sighed and watched as Sherlock desperately tried to herd the children into the main hall, spluttering as they tried to pull at his collar.

John’s lips quirked up into a sly smirk. Well, he thought, almost everything.

“Right then!” John exclaimed and twenty-one heads whipped around to face him. Sherlock’s expression crumpled pitifully; clearly, he was out of his depths. John rubbed his hands together, attempting to at least look enthusiastic. “Do any of you know why you’re here?”

He was met with a sea of blank faces. He sighed. How could he ever have hoped that this would be easy? His brows jumped as Bobby’s hand sprung into the air. A sense of relief washing over him, John smiled. Perhaps he was being too harsh.

“Yes Bobby?” he asked.

“Can I go to the toilet?” asked Bobby. John’s face fell into a look of disdain and he ran a hand over his face.

“Yes, go on then.” Bobby pushed himself to his feet, scurrying out of the room and flashing a grin to Sherlock as he went. “Don’t…don’t run…and he’s already gone. Right.” John couldn’t believe that he was being forced to direct this performance. A bloody Christmas performance. If it were John’s choice, you’d have better luck catching Sherlock pole dancing than John Watson directing a Christmas nativity play.

John snapped out of his daydream to the sound of Sherlock clearing his throat. “Hmm?” John said. “Oh! Oh, yes, right.” He cleared his throat. “We are…” he trailed off, clicking his tongue, “we are going to be holding auditions. Quite soon.”

An excited chatter fluttered through the group.

“We’ll need a Mary and a Joseph,” almost every hand shot up at once, “an innkeeper and an angel Gabriel. The rest I’ll,” John looked to the ceiling as if searching for a higher power, “just make something up.” His shoulders sagged in defeat.

A hand was still up.

“Yes, Rosie, what is it?”

“Can I be baby Jesus?” John stared at her. He knew she was a child, but by God.

“Baby Jesus is a baby.” Rosie nodded enthusiastically. “No! No, you cannot be baby Jesus, baby Jesus will be played by a baby.”

“A real one?” someone asked.

“No.”

“How are babies made?”

John wanted to scream. “I think you’d better ask your parents that,” he deadpanned. He could all but imagine the angry emails pouring in.

“I think the first thing to do would be to hand out the scripts. Don’t you, Dr Watson?” Sherlock doused John’s name with as much venom as he seemed able to muster.

John glared at him but reached behind him for the script pile, nonetheless. Sherlock flashed him an innocent smile.

“You should learn the parts you wish to portray by heart,” Sherlock said with an aristocratic flourish, “which are the page numbers again, Dr Watson?”

John scowled. “Right,” he said, “pages four to five for Mary and Joseph, page three for the angel and page thirty-two for the innkeeper.”

“I assume the other parts will be distributed according to performances displayed in the already available parts?”

John felt his nostrils flare. He smiled, tilting his head. “Yes. That’s right.” He clutched the scripts in his hand too tightly and the paper was screwed up incredibly by the time he’d finished handing them out.

*

The rest of the morning passed by smoothly until lunchtime, where John sat wracking his brain, hideously contemplating a word that rhymed with Bethlehem.

“You know,” came Sherlock’s voice from across the room, causing John to jump, “you could just make them sing carols.”

“Jesus,” John said, clutching his chest, “next time just knock, will you?” His irritation dissolved into a soft smile at the sight of Sherlock’s hesitant expression and he found he had to look away, not quite able to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a sigh. Sherlock blinked.

“You…you are?” he asked, resembling a startled deer.

John ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been feeling stressed. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” Where was he going with this?

Sherlock was speechless, opening his mouth to speak before closing it immediately afterwards.

“And,” John swallowed, “you can still…” he didn’t want to say ‘move in’, that seemed too suggestive, “stay with me.” That would do.

Sherlock’s lipped quirked up slightly. “I play the violin you know, when I’m thinking.”

John felt himself relax, grinning. “Wouldn’t expect anything else.”

Sherlock snorted. “I am right though,” he said, nodding towards the papers strewn across John’s desk, “you could just use carols. It’d be much easier.”

John groaned. “I know,” he said, “but I have to make it seem like we’ve got something special here. I can’t just do the same thing as everyone else.”

Sherlock walked over to pick up the page John was working on. “Since when does donkey rhyme with chunky?”

John placed his head in his hands. “It semi-rhymes.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Hey, it’s good enough for now.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Sherlock placed the paper back on the desk as John released an annoyed huff. “Come on John, I think you could use a break.” He strode over to the door, holding it open with a mock bow. “And some fresh air,” he added.

John couldn’t help but grin and with but a few moments deliberation, he picked up his jacket from his chair.

They ended up sitting in a wooden hut made for the children and decidedly not a tall, dark haired detective. Sherlock ended up having to hunch in over himself which was, and john wouldn’t allow himself to admit it, hopelessly endearing.

“So, John, I expect you’re wondering the real reason as to why I brought you here,” Sherlock said with a triumphant grin.

John frowned. “I thought we were getting fresh air?”

Sherlock’s expression fell. “Was it really so easy to fall for that?” John just shrugged. “So, you weren’t curious at all?”

“Well,” John said, “I did think it was a bit odd, you inviting me here for a chat. That doesn’t seem like you.”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. “It could be like me,” he said quietly.

John wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that, so he kept quiet until Sherlock decided to speak again. Sherlock didn’t, just sat there staring into John’s eyes, unblinking. John coughed, the first to look away.

“So, the real reason you brought me here?” John prompted.

Sherlock nodded sharply, snapped out of a trance. “I thought you might like to help me with the case,” he said.

“The missing children one?” Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. “I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask.”

Sherlock looked confused. “Of course, you are John; I need someone to help me navigate my hypotheses.”

“So, I’m effectively just here for you to bounce ideas off of?”

Sherlock dipped his head. “If you like, yes.”

John’s frowned deepened. “Why me?” he asked, feeling exposed.

Sherlock paused. “I haven’t quite managed to deduce that yet, Dr Watson.” John raised an eyebrow. What the hell was that supposed to mean? “You’re not exactly anything special, but I find there’s just something about you,” Sherlock pondered, “you help me to think clearly.”

To anyone else, Sherlock’s words would’ve seemed like an insult, but John understood what he was trying to say: Sherlock helped him to think clearly too. For the first time, he didn’t miss the war.

He didn’t say any of that, however. “Thanks,” was all he mumbled under his breath as he felt his cheeks grow warm. “So, the case?”

“Yes, the case. I believe I have a plan.”

John blinked. “Which is?”

“…Perhaps it would be best to talk about the party tomorrow night.”

“What happened to me helping you think clearly—wait a minute, ‘the party’?”

“Yes.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Mrs Hudson asked me to inform you that there’s a party being hosted to celebrate Hollywood coming to film your nativity.”

John jumped up abruptly and immediately regretted it as he smacked his head against the lower edge of the roof. “There’s a what?”

“A party. I thought we’d just established this.”

“Unbelievable,” John breathed, “no, no absolutely not. I’m not going.” He placed his hands on his hips.

“It’s celebrating your achievement,” Sherlock pointed out, “you have to go.”

“No,” John repeated, “you know why?” He pushed out his bottom lip, eyes wide. “Because, it’s not really my achievement, is it? Because Hollywood aren’t really coming to film it, are they? Because, Sherlock, I made it up!”

John was breathing heavily by the time he’d finished yelling. Sherlock acted like nothing had happened and John was about to shout at him again when Sherlock turned to look to the left.

“Ah, Molly,” Sherlock said.

John’s head whipped around, and he found Molly Hooper’s wide eyes staring back at him.

“Sherlock!” Molly exclaimed, tearing her eyes away from John. “If this isn’t a good time…”

“No, no!” Sherlock said with a plastered smile. “It’s very kind of you to join us.”

Molly blushed, biting her lip as a small smile threatened to spill over her lips. John fought the urge to roll his eyes as she shuffled over to sit next to Sherlock on the opposite bench. John collapsed into his own seat, feeling miserable.

“Pardon me,” John said, trying not to let his irritation flare, “but what exactly are you here for?”

“Oh,” said Molly, glancing between the two men, “I’m here to help you with your song writing. Did…did Sherlock not tell you?”

“No,” John flicked his gaze to Sherlock, smiling murderously, “he didn’t.”

“Well,” Molly said with a strained laugh, “here I am. Surprise!” When John didn’t move she swallowed, eyes flitting down to her hands.

“John,” she looked up, nervous, “I’m sorry to ask you this, I really am, but—”

“You want to know if what you just overheard was true,” John said, doing Sherlock’s job for him. He sighed. “Yeah, it is.”

Molly’s eyes widened. “You made it up?”

John shrank into himself, nodding.

Molly sucked in a startled gasp. “How could you do such a thing?”

John glowered. “It’s not as if I meant to,” he grunted, “Anderson went and told everyone a lie I made up on the spot. It’s not my fault he’s got a big mouth.”

Molly’s eyes were still wide. “You’ve got to tell someone,” she implored him, “this isn’t right.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched at the corners. Oh, John didn’t believe it. Was the smug bastard enjoying this?

“I can’t.” John did his best to ignore Sherlock. “It’s too late now; it’s all over the news.”

“So, release a statement!” Molly said. “It’d make a brilliant story. I’m sure you wouldn’t have a problem getting something to print.”

“I’d be a laughing-stock!” John sighed, locking his fingers together. “Please, Molly. I’ll sort something out just…don’t say anything yet.”

Molly chewed on her lower lip. “Alright,” she said eventually, “but the children will be heartbroken.”

John’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you.”

Molly nodded. She turned to Sherlock, straightening her back and making sure her features were bright once again. “So!” she said with a smile, slightly too wide. “Christmas songs!”

*

Sherlock didn’t have much with him, as John soon found out. He’d only brought with him a small bag. Everything else he needed, it seemed was shoved deep in the pockets of his long coat. Sherlock had started to say goodbye to John at the end of the school day, but John was nothing if not true to his word and he did feel like he owed the man for how he’d treated him just hours earlier. So here he was now, waiting to invite a man he’d met only days before, into his house to live with him for however long was needed.

They stood awkwardly outside John’s front door. “The spare room has a bed and everything,” John said, anything to break the silence.

“I know.”

“Oh.” John fished around in his pocket for his keys. “I just wanted to let you know. In case you thought you’d have to sleep on the couch, or something.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said.

“I guess I needn’t have bothered then.”

Sherlock smiled, tossing John a sideways glance. “I appreciate the thought.”

John frowned as he twisted the key in the lock. Unsure as to whether Sherlock was mocking him or not. The door opened with a click and John stepped forwards into his hallway. The inside of his house was drab, just as the outside was. There were no decorations, and hardly any photographs. John didn’t really mind though: it was his home, after all.

“Welcome,” John said with open arms, facing away from Sherlock. He felt much more at ease within the comfort of his own walls.

He turned around with a smile as Sherlock surveyed the interior of his home. His smile dropped. He suddenly felt exceedingly exposed as Sherlock’s eyes swept along the beige walls.

“It’s alright John,” Sherlock said without looking at him, “I already know practically everything about you.”

Somehow, that didn’t fill John with much confidence. He let slip a nervous chuckle.

“Your ceiling could do with repainting,” Sherlock observed. John shrugged.

“So could everything else, I expect.” He moved to take Sherlock’s bag and bring it to his room, good host and all that. Big mistake.

Their fingers brushed as John reached in to take hold of the straps and he swore that Sherlock flinched slightly. His eyes flicked up to meet the detective’s, whose expression was unreadable. His dark curls rested softly above his eyebrows and if John just reached up a little bit he could surely just—

John realised what he was doing. He blinked, taking a large step back, dropping Sherlock’s bag in the process. He stooped down to pick it up, feeling his cheeks flush.

“I’ll just um,” he muttered, ears burning, “your room’s this way.” He started to make his way upstairs toward the spare room, not checking to see if Sherlock was following him.

John was cooking dinner when Sherlock finally came downstairs. He was beginning to panic. There was no way he could just ignore what had happened before in the hall. The way he’d felt when Sherlock’s fingers had brushed against his…well, it wasn’t anything good, that was for sure. John had only really been out with women in the past. Sure, he could appreciate the broad shoulders of a man but that didn’t mean anything more. Did it? No. Sherlock was merely intriguing. That was all. He was just an interesting man. A detective was bound to be alluring. Anyone would feel the same.

Especially with a detective as intelligent as Sherlock Holmes. Especially with his stormy eyes, his cupid bow lips, his tousled hair, his chiselled cheekbones. John groaned and slumped against the kitchen counter.

He was screwed. Well and truly screwed. There wasn’t even a word for how screwed he was.

“I see we’re having Chow Mein,” Sherlock said, jolting John into the present. He spun around. Sherlock had taken off his coat and was standing in his dressing gown instead. His shirt was far too tight.

John swallowed. “Actually,” he managed, keeping his voice level, “it’s stir-fry.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed pink. “Same thing,” he grumbled.

John had to grin. “Not really,” he said, “not at all, if I’m honest.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Can I help?” he asked.

“Can you…what?” John hadn’t expected that.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “I meant,” he said slowly, “I want to see if you’re doing it correctly.”

John raised an eyebrow. “…Sure,” he said, “I’m sure you’re quite the expert.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. He moved so that he stood directly behind John, leaning over to see what he was doing.

“I told you, you’re doing it wrong.”

John frowned. “Pretty sure I’m not.”

“Oh?” Sherlock puffed out his chest like a proud pigeon. “And how would you know?”

“Because,” John said slowly, “unlike you, I’m guessing, I can actually cook.”

Sherlock scowled. “You’re doing it wrong,” he repeated.

John shrugged. “Alright then,” he said, trying not to focus on the warmth radiating from Sherlock’s close proximity, “you try, if you’re so clever.” He handed him the spoon. Sherlock snatched it from him.

“I am clever.”

“But you can’t cook.”

“I can!”

John only shrugged again. “Prove it then,” he said, “I’ll sit over there and wait until you’re done.”

He gestured to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Sherlock held his head high defiantly.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

A lock of his hair fell out of place, sweeping over his eyes. John couldn’t help himself; he reached up, nudging it out of the way with a soft touch.

He didn’t know quite what possessed him.

Sherlock’s lips were parted slightly, and his eyes were wide. John coughed, determinedly looking at the kitchen tiles. He was well aware of the fact that he was blushing.

“Right,” he said, “show me what you’ve got, Sherlock.”

He took a step back, taking his seat at the table, arms crossed. Sherlock nodded, slightly dazed and set about stirring their dinner.

They ended up having Chow Mein after all. Only it was a take-away and the batteries to John’s smoke alarm lay scattered next to the containers.

John didn’t mind though. He smiled. It almost felt like Christmas.

Almost, but not quite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading if you did, and please do tell me if you enjoyed it; I'd really appreciate it and would love to hear from you. Depression sucks ass but whatever, who needs a brain anyway? (Certainly not these two dorks.)

**Author's Note:**

> Ah yes, the good old twist on the first meeting. I can't wait to show you all what happens next. Please do tell me what you thought, and if you enjoyed it, don't hesitate to slam that kudos button. If you didn't enjoy it, I, well, sorry.
> 
> Anyway, at least it'll give you something to read if you're as bored as Sherlock gets (though hopefully it hasn't quite reached that point yet.)
> 
> Thank you so much and Happy Christmas!


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